


Memories Lost on Christmas Day

by agnesanutter, PlainJane



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Fluff, Holidays, Hospitals, M/M, Post-Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-25
Updated: 2013-12-25
Packaged: 2018-01-06 03:29:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1101856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agnesanutter/pseuds/agnesanutter, https://archiveofourown.org/users/PlainJane/pseuds/PlainJane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's the day before Christmas and Sherlock and John are exactly where they need to be....</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Twas the night before Christmas and Sherlock Holmes is sat in a hospital

 

John opened his eyes slowly, gradually becoming aware that something was wrong. A sharp pain stabbed at him when he tried to breathe. His bad shoulder was throbbing. Hell he ached all over. He wasn’t sure how he got to where he was, but the feeling was familiar.

He’d probably been doing something he shouldn’t have, so likely he was with Sherlock before he got here. He moaned a little as he tried to suss out where he was and if there was danger headed their way immediately…again.

“You’re in hospital,” a familiar voice said.

John turned, just able to make out Sherlock’s shape in the dimly lit room. He was folded into a chair under the window, illuminated by the moonlight coming from behind him.

“Wha-happened?”

“The girlfriend. She had a knife under her jacket. You struggled with her, though I have no idea why. You easily could have shot her and been done with the whole matter.”

“Can’t just go ‘round shooting everyone,” John muttered, his tongue feeling very thick. He groaned. “So she stabbed me?”

“Yes. Fortunately she is not very strong and you are very skilled. It could have been much worse,” Sherlock leaned forward, dropping his feet to the floor. “Still, you have eight staples in your right side. And your shoulder was bruised when you fell. You passed out in the ambulance on the way here.”

John peered at him. “You okay?”

“Of course I’m okay,” Sherlock said abruptly then seemed to take a steadying breath before adding, “I’m fine.”

“Right. Course you are,” John sighed. He closed his eyes for a moment. “They’re keeping me in?”

“Obviously.”

John grunted a little as he tried to shift the weight from his sore shoulder then finished with a sigh.

“You’ll need something for pain.” Sherlock reached toward John’s bed and pressed the call button. His hand settled on John’s arm momentarily. John couldn’t quite focus, but he was sure he detected a slight tremor before the familiar hand became steady on his arm.

“I’m fine really.” John moved again, finally settling with another soft whimper of pain and looked directly at Sherlock sat in his chair. The man was fully dressed and though they’d both most likely were involved in the skirmish not a hair was out of place. His coat was still on; he looked like he didn’t belong. He was sitting too rigidly to appear to be holding vigil over someone in a hospital bed. “Why are you still here, Sherlock?” John asked.

“I —”

Sherlock was prevented from answering as the nurse entered the room. His mouth rested in a moue of disapproval as the nurse hummed a Christmas carol as she entered the room.

“Hmmmm, well, Dr. Watson. The rumours about you are true. You do indeed fight crime when you’re not working as a top notch man of medicine.”

“That’s not really…” John began.

“Oh, don’t be modest. Handsome, crime-fighting doctors never should be, dear. Now you’ve apparently given your boyfriend a bit of a scare. He was distraught when you came in and I had to kick him out…” She cast a chastening look in Sherlock’s direction. “Twice!”

“I wanted to ensure John’s care would be up to par, considering the appallingly low standards one finds in certain hospitals.” True to form, Sherlock ignored any mention of relationship — real or implied. He cleared his throat and continued. “I was simply…concerned.”

“Bless. He’s a horrible liar isn’t he?” The nurse winked at John who tried to stifle a chuckle, but ended up groaning.

“Bet you’re a bit sore, aren’t you, luv.” The nurse’s gentle tone took John back years, to a time when he didn’t randomly wind up in hospital after yet another wound caused by chasing after a man who lied to him for years and turned up with barely an apology and very few words to explain just where he’d been.

The nurse moved around with quick efficiency, checking his chart. She was about the age his mum would have been, John decided. He liked her immediately, especially because she seemed to ruffle Sherlock’s feathers.

She crossed to his bed and checked his vitals. She glanced up at Sherlock. “Now visiting hours did end some time ago, you know.”

“He’s family,” John said swiftly.

“Oh, so not boyfriend, then? Husband?” She said with a smile playing on her lips as if she was ready to congratulate the happy couple.

“I would like to stay.” Sherlock ignored the question, as he so often did, and simply stated his intention. One he most likely realised no one would refuse. Who refused Sherlock Holmes, really?

When he’d showed up after two years away, John was angry, of course. Still, after many texts and Sherlock showing up at his flat one day with milk (of all things) John couldn’t help but laugh and try to move on. He hadn’t moved back to 221B (too much history there), but when Sherlock called, he came.

“Technically, though, I should be sending you home,” she replied softly and smiled at the frowning detective. “Rules still apply, even on Christmas Eve.”

Christmas. Of course. John had forgotten in all the haste and haze of the case. He hadn’t even thought about what he would be doing for Christmas this year. Truth be told — as pathetic as it sounded — he was happier in hospital than living through another drunken family affair with Harry or alone in his bedsit.

John glanced around, noting for the first time that he was in a private room. Mycroft, probably — another favour called in. No decorations in sight, but at least Sherlock was here. That fact alone meant it would probably be a damn sight better than last Christmas when he found himself alone with far too much time to think about things. “He won’t disturb anyone.” John promised.

The nurse eyed Sherlock and raised an eyebrow to John.

“Again,” John added remembering Sherlock had already caused a fuss. John could only imagine the ruckus he’d caused. Hell, if it’d been Sherlock bleeding out he’d…John closed his eyes and tried to block out the images threatening to fill his head.

“Apologies for before,” Sherlock said coldly.

John had definitely heard Sherlock give better performances, but John turned to the nurse helplessly and she gave him a wink.

“You’ll keep him in line then?”

“I always do,” John responded, failing to stifle a hiss of pain.

She nodded again and returned her attention to John’s injuries. “Can you describe your pain for me, on a scale from 1 to 10?” She moved the blanket covering his bare chest out of the way.

“Seven. No, six,” John stammered. He hissed a little as she eased back the dressing extending up over his ribcage. “Seven.”

She smiled as she pulled the blanket back up and patted his arm. “I’ll be right back.” She hesitated in the doorway and turned back to Sherlock with a grin. “You keep your hands off him while I’m gone.”

Sherlock resumed his huddled position in the chair and steepled his fingers. He seemed to be slipping into the mind palace. No doubt to catalogue the details of the case. John sighed.

“So… why are you still here?” John asked again, rolling his head in Sherlock’s direction.

“Isn’t that what husbands do?” Sherlock rolled his eyes “Mycroft will be terribly disappointed he didn’t get to throw us a wedding.”

John snorted then winced. “Shit. Don’t make me laugh. Smart arse.”

Sherlock gave a crooked grin at that. It was a shared memory, familiar and comfortable. Everything their relationship had not been since Sherlock’s ‘resurrection.’

Sherlock stretched out again and shuffled the chair forward. “I’m avoiding the flat. Mycroft threatened to stop by.”

John assessed him. “Is that the truth?”

Sherlock’s bottom lip twitched — it was an almost imperceptible movement, the firing of a nerve ending that provided the slightest betrayal of his real state of mind. John couldn’t always tell when Sherlock was lying, but he knew when the man was uncomfortable.

“No.”

John was about to repeat the question as the nurse returned.

“Here we are,” she said cheerfully, hanging a new bag on the IV stand, and hooking it up. “This will make you feel much better.” She looked pointedly at Sherlock. “And help you to sleep.”

Sherlock merely blinked at her, his eyes wide and innocent. The nurse nodded at John then gave Sherlock’s shoulder a gentle pat and left the room. When the door closed behind her, John tried again. He wasn’t sure why he needed to do it, really, other than the fact that it felt nice for Sherlock to be the one under the microscope for a change.

“So?”

“So…what?”

“Why are you still here?” John sighed, settling a little heavier into the bed. He started to draw the blankets up; Sherlock pushed his hands away and tugged the covers from his fingers. He slipped them up and over John’s arms, careful of his IV, and tucked the bedding in around him. John was too weary to question it.

“As I said, I just wanted to be sure you were receiving adequate care.”

John yawned, giving in to the urge to close his eyes. “Hmmm. Very considerate. But you should go. S’boring.”

“I’m fine.”

“Nothing for you to do. Call Lestrade. Get another case on.”

“I have my phone and I’ve a lot of compiling to do in the palace…so much data. How extraordinary to find a male/female serial killer couple. Fascinating. Go to sleep.”

“No. Nope.”

“You’re being pointlessly stubborn.”

“Learned from the best.” John gave a weary smile and added, “We could…talk.”

“That really isn’t necessar —”

“You start.”

“With what?”

“Dunno,” John sighed. “You could…you could tell me.”

Sherlock leaned in, resting his elbows on the bed. “Tell you what, John?”

“’Bout Moriarty. While you were away. Where you went. What you did. Like that.”

There was a very long pause. John reluctantly opened one eye and then the other. “S’wrong?”

“I don’t…I haven’t spoken about that.” Sherlock slumped back in his chair. “It was a very unpleasant — and personal — experience.”

There was something else keeping Sherlock from telling John more. He could see it but he was beginning to feel too groggy to push. “Fine. I’ll tell you something about me. Something personal. Then you. ‘Kay?”

Sherlock relaxed, a pleased interest entering his eyes. “All right. That seems fair.”

“I like jumpers.”

Sherlock snorted. “Hardly a revelation.”

“Uglier the better.”

“Again, hardly earth shattering,” Sherlock huffed. “If you expect me to bare my soul, you’ll have to do better than that.”

John hummed. He was so pleasantly warm, and everything was a little bit fuzzy around the edges. “Dated someone while you were…gone. Seriously. I was — I thought about proposing but...” John sighed “Didn’t work out.”

There was a long pause. John glanced over to find Sherlock staring at him, mouth set in tight line. Finally he spoke. “I worked at a nuclear power facility in France for six months. I very nearly caused a catastrophic event.”

“How?”

“Experiment.”

“Oh. Right.” John thought for a moment then grinned. “When Greg and I were having a pint one night, I took his phone off him and texted your brother…something a bit not good. Even my old army mates would blush to see.”

Sherlock made a face, his nose crinkling in disgust. “Well, that explains a great deal.”

“What?”

“Later.” Sherlock straightened in his chair and crossed his legs. He watched John, clearly considering what he would reveal next.

There was another long pause. “I was responsible for the capture of eight men and five women,” he continued with his face set in a schooled blank expression. “I killed three people.”

Their eyes locked and held for several minutes. John tried to nod. “In self-defence?”

“Would that make it more acceptable?”

“I dunno. Maybe.”

“Everything I did was in defence. If not of myself then of...you,” Sherlock cleared his throat. “And Mrs. Hudson. Lestrade. Everyone. The world is better for those people having been dealt with.”

John licked his lips, trying to stay focussed. “I was in love with Clara before she got together with my sister.”

“I know that. Doesn’t count.”

“How did you — never mind,” John muttered then blinked slowly. “Uh, okay. Okay. This is — and if you ever say anything about this…” He took a deep breath. “I used to stand on the rooftop. At Bart’s. Every week.”

Sherlock’s eyebrow shot up.

John shook his head. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Just don’t say ‘Sentiment’ or…just don’t.”

“I wasn’t going to,” Sherlock said, sounding almost wounded. “I was going to ask —”

“Nnnnope. No, no.” John yawned again and his eyes drifted closed. “You. Your turn.”

Sherlock cleared his throat.

“S’only fair,” John got out, trying to hold on.

“Well, then, I suppose I could tell you that after some weeks — while I was in America, actually — I realised it would have been…beneficial…to have your assistance,” Sherlock admitted reluctantly. “I would have included you. If I could.”

“S’nice,” John slurred. “Missed you, too.” He sighed. “Getting harder to stay away.”

“What’s that?”

John was sinking. “Harder…you know…not to be at 221B,” he mumbled. “Wi’you.”

“And why is that, John?”

John could hear the voice. He wanted to answer, but the great blackness that had been forming around the edges of his consciousness had expanded. He made a satisfied noise as he began to drift away.

“John?” A hand was pressing insistently at his good shoulder. “John, why? Why is it hard to stay away?”

John loved the sound of that voice. Sherlock. He felt safe and contented. Everything was going to be all right. The ‘horrible snow’ that Sherlock hated was falling outside but t’was nice.

“Why are you smiling?” Sherlock asked. “John, please tell me. If you want to come home, why haven’t you?”

John sank beneath the heavy black fog once more, managing only one more word before he fell asleep.

“Deduce.”


	2. Post-Deduction, Pre-Fin

“This is ridiculous.”

“It’s hospital policy, as you are well aware,” Sherlock muttered. “This is expedient.”

John huffed, one arm cradling his injured side. He hated being pushed in a wheelchair. Despised it. And he was particularly unenthusiastic when the driver was a nicotine-deprived detective with the impulse control of a toddler.

They reached the end of the corridor and Sherlock lurched the wheelchair around a corner at breakneck speed. John gripped the armrest with his free hand.

“For god’s sake! The point is to get me to the car without aggravating my injury, you pillock.”

“Sorry.”

“Just what is the bloody hurry, anyway?”

“Things to do,” Sherlock evaded.

“Things? What things?”

They were joined in the lift by an elderly couple and a resident (John recognized the exhaustion). Mercifully, Sherlock was silent for the journey to the main floor. Once there, however, he sped them through the hospital’s main entry and out onto the pavement with the same recklessness he’d exhibited upstairs.

He only just managed to avoid colliding with anyone — not an easy feat with the crowd gathered to listen to a carolling children’s choir.

By the time John was settling into the car Mycroft had sent, he was tired and sore.

Sherlock climbed into the seat next to him and slammed the door. The saloon pulled out into traffic and the detective retrieved his phone. They rode in silence for several minutes as the man checked his messages.

“London’s quiet today,” John said finally. He was a little sad he hadn’t been discharged later in the day, after dark. He loved the lights and decorations.

“Holiday.”

“Yes, I realise that.” John replied evenly. “Just saying there is something quite nice about having so few people about.”

Sherlock snorted in derision.

“All right, what’s with you?” John asked.

“What do you mean?”

“What was that two-minute mile to get out of the hospital? Driving the pushchair like a bloody maniac. What was that?”

Sherlock shrugged, refusing to meet his gaze. “I told you. Things to do.”

“On Christmas Day?”

Sherlock shifted. “Crime doesn’t take holidays, John.”

John sighed, staring out the window. “You didn’t have to stay at the hospital.”

“So you said last night.”

“Did I? Well, that was sensible advice. You should have gone. I was asleep anyway. Drugged, too. Can’t have been very exciting for you.”

“The conversation was interesting,” Sherlock said. He turned to look at John finally. “You don’t remember?”

John recognised the tone. Scepticism. He searched his memory for the traces of… _oh, god_. “No,” he answered, trying to keep his tone neutral. _Oh, god._ “I, uhm, don’t remember much past A &E. I was in pain. I had a glance at my chart — it was a pretty high dose of painkillers.”

“You don’t remember what we talked about?”

“No,” John said lightly. “Sorry. I must have blacked out. Still, as long as you weren’t bored.”

“No, not bored,” Sherlock said. He stared at John until the doctor finally had to look away.

John checked out the car window to discover they had reached his neighbourhood. “I was supposed to go to Harry’s today,” he mused.

“I rang her last night. She said she would stop in to see you, bring you something to eat. She and…Cassie, is it?”

“Cassie, yeah. That’s the new girlfriend. They met at AA and it hasn’t been the best relationship so far, but…” John shrugged, wincing a bit at his still-sore shoulder. “At least Harry’s not on her own anymore.”

“Like you?”

John couldn’t help but glance back at the man. Sherlock’s gaze was even more penetrating than usual. He was looking for something in John’s face. That much was obvious.

The car slowed and came to a stop. John checked out the window again, spying his own front door. It was a miserable little flat, but it was what he could afford on his own and it was convenient to the tube.

He had his hand on the door handle when Sherlock’s voice stopped him.

“I’ve never taken you for a coward, John Watson.”

“A coward?” John frowned. He turned gingerly, one hand on his side. “What the hell are you on about?”

“You remember every word of what we said last night,” he began. “And knowing me as you do, you must be aware that I _did_ deduce.”

“No.” John was shaking his head. He couldn’t do this. He wasn’t ready.

“Yes,” Sherlock insisted. His lips had turned up into a very satisfied and slightly predatory smile. “You remember every word. And I’ll be honest with you…”

“About?” John’s tone was more than a little sarcastic. Self-defence.

Sherlock leaned in. “We had a similar conversation more than two years ago. And _I_ remember every word of _that_.”

_2011 - A very unattractive corpse_

“Okay, come on.” John grunted under the strain of the dead weight in his arms. Sherlock had been semi-conscious in the police car on the way back to 221B (enough to demand that they not take him to hospital), but had faded on the way up the stairs.

“Fuck, he’s heavy,” Lestrade complained, bearing the other half of Sherlock’s body via his legs. They were shuffling through the kitchen and into Sherlock’s bedroom. “You wouldn’t know it to look at him. Skinny bastard.”

John wanted to laugh, but didn’t have enough air. He kicked the bedroom door open and elbowed the light on as he passed.

“Let’s just get him into bed before he vomits again,” John croaked. “I don’t fancy that all over me, thanks.”

“Oh, but it’s fine in my panda?” Lestrade griped. “Thanks very much.”

They stopped beside the bed and John set Sherlock down on the mattress, propping him up in a sitting position.

“Hold him for a minute.”

Lestrade gripped the limp man’s shoulders and held him mostly upright as John tugged at the bedding. He slid the duvet down as far as he could and then started to lift Sherlock again with Lestrade’s help, just enough to slip the duvet beneath him.

“John…”

Sherlock’s voice was groggy, thick. He roused a little — enough to try and stand before falling heavily into John’s body.

“Fuck,” John muttered as the man’s lanky frame draped over his shoulders. He glanced over one bony shoulder and shot Greg a deadly look. “Not one bloody word.”

Lestrade held up both hands, grinning like a madman.

“Oi, why do have your camera out?”

“Oh, come on,” Lestrade begged. “This would finish it nicely.”

John’s face was stony. “Fuck right off.” He wrestled his drowsy, drugged detective back toward the bed. “You are not adding this to whatever you filmed earlier. Forget it.”

Sherlock sighed heavily as John dropped him to the mattress. He fell back unceremoniously, arms flung wide.

“John?”

Lestrade was chuckling now.

“Right, that’s it,” John said firmly, turning on the copper. “Thanks for the help. Off you go.”

“Spoilsport,” the older man said, tucking his phone back into his coat. “Good luck with him. I don’t envy the night you’ll have.”

“That makes two of us,” John grumbled. He shut the bedroom door behind Lestrade and returned to where Sherlock lay. “Right, then. Shoes off, I think. The rest can — well, it’ll be fine I guess.”

He knelt and began to untie the expensive Italian shoes while the man moaned, only partially aware of his surroundings.

“Home?”

“Yes, you’re at home,” John replied. “Should be in hospital, but you’re at home.”

There was a long humming noise from the man on the bed.

“John?”

“Yes?”

“She drugged me.”

“Yes, she did.” John stood again. He lifted Sherlock’s legs and turned the man on his bottom so he could set them down on the bed. Sherlock sighed again and stretched out before John shoved and prodded him onto his side.

“Why? Why did she…she’s not nice, John.”

John snorted. “No, she definitely isn’t that. Then again, I don’t think that’s really what she’s going for.”

He pulled the duvet up over Sherlock’s shoulders. The man looked up at him with bleary eyes.

“You’re nice.”

“Oh, well, thanks. Cheers,” John chuckled. “Just sleep. You’ll feel better in the morning.”

John was halfway to the bedroom door when he heard it.

“Stay.”

“Sorry?” He turned back. “You need something?”

Sherlock looked so young, and lost, lying huddled in the big bed. John melted a little.

“Stay,” Sherlock repeated.

“I don’t…”

“Please.”

John sighed himself, looking around for something to sit on. He grabbed the chair near the wall and pulled it next to the bed.

“Just for a few minutes,” he said softly. “Until you go back to sleep.”

Sherlock nodded, seemingly placated.

John sat and settled in to watch the man drift back into his pharmaceutical haze. Sherlock was staring at him with glassy eyes. He probably wasn’t aware of much.

John knew what Irene had given Sherlock — it was fairly safe, though its use was known to induce vomiting in some subjects (check) and could result in limited amnesia.

Amnesia.

“Sherlock?”

“Hmm?”

“You liked Irene, didn’t you?”

“A bit,” Sherlock mumbled. “Clever.”

“Yes, she is, I suppose,” John acknowledged. He felt a peculiar tugging in his chest as he considered his next question. He wasn’t sure why he needed to know. But he did. “Do you like me?”

“Yes,” Sherlock replied simply. “You’re John.”

“I know who I am, idiot,” John smirked. “Is that why you like me? Just because I’m the daft bugger who puts up with your mess, and your temper, and your…everything?”

“No, I don’t like you.”

John sighed. It was pointless. He should have known better. “Okay, maybe I should just leave you alone.”

“I don’t like you,” Sherlock repeated. “I love you.”

John froze, halfway out of his chair. He looked at his friend, certain he would see a sarcastic, teasing expression there, revealing that the bastard wasn’t as out of it as he’d thought. Instead, Sherlock was smiling.

It was like nothing John had ever seen before. The expression actually lit up the man’s face.

“You — what?”

“Love you,” Sherlock sighed. His eyes fluttered closed. “My John. Brave. Good. Smart. My friend.”

John swallowed hard. Love could mean many different things, after all. Damn the English language for not having more than word for it. Greek would be useful here. Sherlock probably knew the words, too…

“Handsome,” Sherlock breathed, clearly drifting away again. “So handsome.”

John slumped back into the chair, stunned. Handsome? Sherlock thought he was handsome?

Sherlock loved him?

He stood and fidgeted with the blankets covering the man then turned and marched smartly from the room.

John spent the night on the sofa, mostly because he wanted to be nearby in case Sherlock needed him (which he had, once — waking and shouting about Irene and demanding to know where she’d gone), but also because he wasn’t able to sleep at all. It was a little too much to take in.

The next morning, Sherlock emerged from his room with a surly expression and slightly bruised cheek (leftover from John’s well-placed punch). He’d showered and changed and expressed an interest in a full English (very rare).

John was still in his pyjamas, but was more than happy to engage in any activity that might divert the conversation. Just in case.

Fortunately, Mrs. Hudson was in and willing to do the honours. As she fussed in the kitchen, John carried a mug out to Sherlock, who was now sitting at the table in the sitting room.

“Coffee?” John asked.

The man nodded at him and reached to take it. John sat, trying not to stare at his friend but finding it strangely difficult now that he knew…what he knew.

“What is it?” Sherlock was snippy.

“Sorry?”

“You’re staring. What is it?”

“Oh, just wondering how you’re feeling. You know, after the drug and…everything.”

“Everything?” Sherlock lowered his paper to glare at John. “Did something happen I should be aware of?”

“Ah, well, there is the matter of Lestrade’s phone.”

“What about it?”

“He filmed you on it. While you were out. A bit.”

“And you let him?”

“I was busy trying to keep you from vomiting all over everyone.”

Sherlock’s cheekbones acquired just a hint of colour.

“You don’t remember me telling you this last night?”

“No,” Sherlock snapped. “Should I?”

“No, no,” John hedged “’Course not. You were drugged, of course.” John swallowed a mouthful of coffee. “Do you remember…anything at all?”

Sherlock set his paper down and studied John carefully. At length, he said simply, “Nothing.”

He picked his paper up again, holding John’s gaze as he gave it a decisive flick.

“Good morning, Mycroft. To what do we owe the pleasure…”

 


	3. I saw a ship on Christmas day in the morning...

 

_2014 – outside John’s flat_

John stared at Sherlock, his mouth agape.

“You…but you said you didn’t remember…anything…”

“Of course I did,” Sherlock sighed, rolling his eyes. “You were terrified. I could see you weren’t ready to discuss it then and we had time. At least I thought we did”

John released the breath he’d been holding. “So you remembered… everything I said? Everything you said?”

“Yes,” Sherlock said softly. “But the fear I saw in your eyes in the morning…well, it made everything…somewhat easier to ignore.”

“You…knew?” John blinked at him. “Don’t you know how much worse that made it? Losing you, thinking that I never got a chance to tell you that…” John’s voice broke. “It nearly killed me.”

Sherlock looked away. “I’m…sorry. There was no other way. You must know that. And I didn’t think — I wasn’t aware…” Sherlock’s voice dropped. “Until last night, I thought I was alone in feeling this way.”

John shook his head and stared out the window.

“I deduced, John,” the man whispered, now staring intently at his gloved hands. “I know you remember telling me to. So I did.” He reached out a gloved hand and turned John’s face to meet his eyes. “I know.”

John was breathing hard and fast. “Jesus. This is...all this time. We could have…”

The two men stared at each other in the dim light of the saloon. One of them would have to say it, John knew. And Sherlock had actually said the words out loud once, so…

“I love you.” John’s voice was shaky and his mouth was dry. He rubbed at his aching side with one clammy palm.

“Yes. You do.” Sherlock’s face was transformed as he beamed at John. He took a deep breath. “John, will you please come home?”

Sherlock slid across the seat tentatively until they were side by side. He placed one long-fingered hand over John’s where it rested on his thigh.

John stared at his friend and colleague — the man he had missed like a part of his own soul for two long years. And now? Now he could…

John lifted his other hand from his injured side and placed it on Sherlock’s cheek, still cool from the winter chill. Sherlock’s eyes were wide as John caressed him.

John pressed a chaste kiss to Sherlock’s soft lips then broke the kiss and smiled.

“John?”

“Let’s go home,” John whispered

Sherlock’s face relaxed once more and he lifted an arm to place it around John’s shoulders.

“You need to rest,” he tutted, allowing John to settle in against his body. John sighed a little as Sherlock’s cheek dropped to the top of his head. Sherlock reached across John to hit the intercom button on the car door.

“Sir?” the driver’s voice crackled through.

“221B Baker Street,” Sherlock said firmly.

“Yes, sir.”

Sherlock eased back against the seat, shifting until John sighed his comfort.

Fifteen minutes later, John found himself escorted to the familiar black door by an awkward but attentive consulting detective. Once inside, Sherlock helped him remove his jacket (now sporting a large gash on the left side) and then supported him up the stairs.

“This feels strange,” John said.

“What, this?” Sherlock sounded a little alarmed as he squeezed John’s elbow.

“No, you git,” John replied fondly. “ _This_. Coming back here. Knowing…” He smiled up at the man. “Knowing I’m going to stay.”

“Oh.”

“You won’t get all this right away, and that’s okay you know?”

Sherlock nodded stiffly. He stopped briefly as they reached the top step.

“Just ask, all right?”

Sherlock nodded again, smiling now. “All right.” He reached for the door to their flat ( _their_ flat) and pushed it open.

John gasped.

“I called Mrs. Hudson late last night. After she was through verbally abusing me for waking her up, she agreed to help me with this,” Sherlock led John forward into the sitting room. “I think she may have recruited Molly to give her a hand.”

It was the most remarkable display of Christmas _everything_ John had ever seen.

A tree had been set up in the corner and was artfully decorated in silver and plum. Two different types of faerie lights had been draped around the room — one set twinkling, the other set draping to resemble icicles. A large wreath had been hung over top of the mirror above the hearth, which had itself been adorned with pine boughs and silver candlesticks. Additional evergreen garlands had been used selectively around the room. There were candles of various sizes in lovely plum-coloured glass lanterns on the tables and shelves.

“Sherlock, how — why —?”

“You love Christmas,” Sherlock said matter-of-factly. “What do you think?”

John turned to face him, suddenly feeling very emotional. “It’s fantastic,” he praised. “Bloody amazing.”

Sherlock looked absolutely delighted. John took both of the man’s hand in his own.

Sherlock looked down at their clasped hands. “There’s one more thing, though.”

“Oh, yes?”

“Over here, by the kitchen.” Sherlock led John that direction, his eyes twinkling. “It’s a very important part of the whole Christmas thing, isn’t it?”

John followed Sherlock’s gaze up to the mistletoe that had been hung from the doorway with a huge silver bow.

“It most certainly is,” John agreed.

Their eyes met; John’s heart fluttered a little. He’d thought about — fantasized about — this moment for a very long time. It was difficult to believe it was actually happening.

“I love you, John Watson,” Sherlock rumbled, his mouth centimetres from John’s.

John breathed him in, leaning up to meet the kiss half way. “I love you, Sherlock Holmes.”

Their lips touched and John could swear he could still hear the children’s choir singing. Or maybe it was angels. Didn’t matter. Nothing mattered but the soft mouth beneath his own.

He drew gently on the full bottom lip, gratified when Sherlock moaned into his mouth before mumbling,

“Happy Christmas, John.”

“Damn!”

“What?”

“I didn’t actually get you anything for Christmas.”

“I can think of an alternative to the standard gift giving.”

“Oh really?”

“Yes. Marry me.”

 

THE END


End file.
